


Moon River

by Nasyat



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romantic Wilson, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 08:54:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14257389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nasyat/pseuds/Nasyat
Summary: Sequel to Love and Croquet. “I don’t know, Faraday, I think it’s kind of wrong...”We're after the same rainbow's end — waiting 'round the bend, my huckleberry friend, Moon River and me.This is a translation of my Russian fanfic.





	Moon River

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song Moon River - I like the original version the most, although Frank Sinatra’s is good, too. 
> 
> I had quite a bit of help with refining it - I would like to thank coffeeparadox from AO3 for fixing the grammar, some sentences, giving me valuable tips and more (for being my beta, basically) and aroshi-wish from Tumblr for offering valuable suggestions on translation! You’re great, guys :’D 
> 
> Original - https://ficbook.net/readfic/6695475

“I don’t know, Faraday, I think it’s kind of wrong...”

Wilson stopped sharpening the stick and looked up at the sun-drenched sky, wrinkling his forehead and pouting his lips pensively a bit to one side. Faraday the meat effigy continued to look at him dumbly with his charcoal-painted eye-crosses. Despite being the reserved type, he was a very good listener.

“I enjoy touching him so much, Faraday... I will not hide it. But I cannot possibly touch...” The man lowered his voice confidentially. “...myself. Don’t you think so?”

Wilson had never resorted to masturbation; even when the voice on the radio drew the words so alluringly, as if hinting at something indecent… And Wilson, yet unaccustomed to this, felt his member rise and pulsate under the table from the song, but did not dare to take ‘it’ into his hands and relieve the almost painful arousal.

“I have morals, Faraday.”

He was not sure what exactly attracted him to that voice. It couldn’t have been just the simple tonalities, the play of sounds in his ears... But something from the person on the other side of the loudspeaker, some kind of essence, intangible, perceived only on the subconscious level by some special senses, impossible and hidden... The essence attracted Wilson, the mystery and silk behind the voice, although it was very charming in itself.

To tell the truth, getting acquainted with the owner of the voice personally spoiled the impression quite a bit.

Wilson shook the dirt off his hands and gazed at the mute scarecrow as if listening for an answer.

“No. This is absolutely impossible. No, no.”

His companion, hinted at by Faraday’s crude likeness, was absent, so the scientist did not hesitate to speak to himself aloud, while crafting and mastering the instruments; he blabbered, and whistled with the birds that sang in cages nearby, by the fireplace. Upon approaching them, the man extracted a handful of seeds from a clay pot and threw it into the cage.

“Here. Fine, Faraday, I'll figure something out.”

Hiding his hands in his pockets, Wilson headed off, tossing his feet slightly forward, his boots catching on weedy grass with white flowers on stiff, spiky stems. He walked and walked, unsure where and for how long - until green started to mix with marble tile. Wilson raised his eyes from the ground and observed a tall, stone statue, a relic from Maxwell’s rule. It loomed over him, its casted shadow intercepting with those of the half-ruined columns and his own.

An idea ran through his head like an electric spark.

He stared at the statue for the longest time, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Having circled it several times, Wilson finally placed his foot on the stone ledge and climbed up with a grunt. Wobbling slightly on the uneven platform, Wilson grabbed the hip of the statue with his hand and held on as he steadied himself. Knitting his eyebrows slightly, he concentrated on keeping his balance.

Maxwell, rumpled and dirty, walked with a shovel from the cemetery. The earth by the tombstones was damp, marshy, and squelched underfoot. Moisture seeped into the hem of his pant legs and poured into his shoes... Therefore, when he was attacked by the large, huge even, frogs, Maxwell was not surprised, although the strike upon the ass with a long, sticky tongue was very unpleasant.

The water sloshed in his wet socks, and the old man grumbled, wiping the dirt from his face with the back of his hand. Fortune, or perhaps just a simple chance, led him to a place where Wilson was still clinging to the remnants his of pride and poise. He was gazing up and trying to look Maxwell's statue in the face, but actually staring somewhere in the area of its ear. Original himself, seeing the scientist, blinked and ran a hand over his face, as if trying to remove that arrogant expression imprinted on the features of his stone doppelganger, and quickly stepped into the bushes. He wondered what Wilson would do - would he disfigure an already ugly statue? Play a trick on him? Maxwell wanted to call him, but the short man spoke. “You know, I fancy you even like this...”

Maxwell froze, growing cold for a second. His heart began to pound with a terrible force, echoing in his ears, so he could not hear what Wilson was saying next. And the other began to stroke his hand on the statue’s inner thigh, sliding it higher and higher...

When his palm lay on the statue's groin, Maxwell made a gurgling sound, not noticing how his own fingers squeezed the front of his trousers in an almost desperate gesture. Wilson turned sharply, changing in the face; their glances met, and Maxwell belatedly dived back into the bushes. It was pointless to run, so he just shut his eyes, burning with shame, breathing heavily and hoping that Wilson would realize the gravity of the situation, that he would not try to "correct himself" and just quietly leave.

His expectations did not come true.

“Maxwell! Maxwell, look, this is not what you...” Wilson pushed the foliage aside and peered inside the bush where Maxwell was hiding. His ears burned, and when he saw the state of the object of his aspirations, the man hesitated. “No, actually, that was exactly what you thought. I'm so sorry, Maxwell, I...”

The man raised his eyes, which were glistening with arousal. His cheeks burned uncontrollably, and Wilson stared at the other’s face in a daze, blinking dumbly. Silence ensued.

“Are you offended?” He finally asked Maxwell. The old man exhaled briefly.

“Yes, Wilson, it's just...” The scientist's gaze fell on his crotch, and Maxwell hurriedly drew his legs together. "...a-awful."

Wilson's eyes looked him up and down, and he bit his lip. Both understood each other, but the shorter man lingered and just stared at him, and Maxwell...

“Why didn’t you say so?”

...could not say a word, or even stir a limb. Wilson held his hand out to him, and the other looked at it in horror, as if it might hit him, or start strangling him.

“Well? Let’s go.”

Maxwell continued to stare, and Wilson forced a smile, shaking his head.

“Take my hand? I just want to help you..." He choked on the words “get up” and laughed, in shock and amusement. “Am I really that... untouchable?”

Maxwell grabbed hold of his hand then, and Wilson helped him to his feet; however, he continued to squeeze the slim, wiry palm tightly. They exchanged glances once again (Maxwell shivered), and Wilson led him to the camp. The elderly man followed, forgetting about the bag with the amulet and trinkets, and the shovel, and everything in the world, consumed in his sensual daydreams and slowly melting from the contact of his tender skin with Wilson’s – it was callous, coarser. His wrist touched the rough fabric of the thin pullover that the other man constantly wore, and Maxwell shivered again; the gentleman’s fingers intertwined with his, and Wilson smiled embarrassedly over his shoulder.

And then they came to the camp; Wilson released his hand, and the magic dissipated. The scientist quickly excused himself and fled somewhere, leaving Maxwell to stand in the middle of the cleared ground, suddenly feeling lost and upset.

***

Wilson appeared in the camp late in the evening, smiling mysteriously and stupidly at the same time. Maxwell had washed himself in the local pond and was now trying to teach captive birds to perform his own melody, for the reward of a seed. The birds chirped over one another, jumping about on the perch, not wanting to listen.

But Wilson wanted to. The old man looked up, discovering him standing five paces away from him and the cage, with a terribly gentle expression on his face. The small man beckoned to him, and Maxwell rose from the ground, brushing off the dust from his knees.

“Come. The moon is full today, so there’s no need for a torch.”

Maxwell looked at him incredulously, and Wilson once again offered him his hand.

“Come with me.”

The moon shone brightly, illuminating everything around with a bluish light. They reached the river, and near the shore Maxwell saw a boat tied to a peg.

“I found and patched it. Don’t worry, it doesn’t leak...” Wilson pulled him towards the small vessel, and Maxwell complied.

Apparently, Wilson had fixed the oars as well. Broadly and unskillfully, he rowed about the quiet river, leading the boat over the scarcely agitated surface. Maxwell looked at the silvery calm of the water, listened to the splashing of oars and the hum of the forest, the lively singing of the cicadas, his distrustfulness and fear soon replaced by a joyful thrill.

“Sing that song for me,” Wilson asked him suddenly. Maxwell looked at him with confusion.

“Which song?”

“The one that you sang on the radio... about the Moon River.”

After clearing his throat and having his jacket straightened, Maxwell did as he was asked and began singing. Wilson rowed to the middle of the river, and the current slowly carried them along the banks, past the pebbles and trees with lush, swaying crowns. Wilson let go of the oars and listened, propping his head up in his palms and smiling funnily.

“Moon River, wider than a mile...”

The light of the moon shook on the surface of the water, and one wanted to scoop it up with his hand and drink this very light.

“Old dream maker, you heartbreaker,  
wherever you're going. I'm going your way.”

Maxwell closed his eyelids to feel the melody better; besides, he was embarrassed by Wilson's eyes, which were shining in the dark so graciously and admiringly.

“... my huckleberry friend,  
Moon River and...”

He felt Wilson leaning on his knees, and then - a soft touch of other’s lips to his. Maxwell sat quietly, letting Wilson give him this kiss, lightly and sweetly, like a warm milk dessert... When he withdrew, the old man remained still, with his eyes closed, his heart beating rapidly, and two scarlet spots blooming on his cheeks like roses. Wilson touched his face, brushing his fingers along the relaxed jaw.

“Why didn’t we do this before?” Wilson asked quietly into the nothingness.

Maxwell's eyelashes fluttered, and he replied, “Because we were enemies. Because, till the very end, I kept to... myself…”

Wilson was nuzzling his cheekbone, and Maxwell opened his eyes, suffocating from the feelings that flooded him. And then he did the bravest thing he remembered in his life: he raised his hand and clung to the opening in Wilson's waistcoat with his fingers. Maxwell felt the younger man's smile on his skin as the other came lower, gently kissing his neck.

Wilson took him right there, on the seat of a small, flimsy boat, and that was the most beautiful love in Maxwell's life. Wilson was immeasurably happy when, at some point, the man wrapped his arms around his back and pulled him closer.

Two drifters off to see the world.  
There's such a lot of world to see.

Moon River...  
and me.


End file.
